


for you, the world

by Marianne_Dashwood



Series: the hope that you provide [5]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Achievement Hunter Kings, Alternate Universe - Minecraft, Canon-Typical Violence, Families of Choice, Fights, Found Family, Gen, Mind Control, Platonic Soulmates, Revolution, Swords, Wings, because fight me that's what these three are, lots of fucking swords, once more if you get the title you are obligated to read this, yes i am pandering to the techno fans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29188128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marianne_Dashwood/pseuds/Marianne_Dashwood
Summary: In Fiona’s mind, she is drowning underneath the salty taste of grief, allowing it to immolate her even as she gasps for breath and her blood pounds in her ears, and she doesn’t want to let go, she knows the boys are behind her but it rushes forward and into her nose and mouth and ears and if she is tasting iron then she isn’t grieving. Fiona sees red. It clouds the memories of burning homes and eviscerated corpses, and she is thankful for it as she slips between the waves. For once, her blood and her heart beat with the same desire: make them pay. Make them payAlternatively,Fiona's beginning, middle, and her end.
Relationships: Fiona Nova & Jack Pattillo, Gavin Free & Fiona Nova, Michael Jones & Fiona Nova, Michael Jones & Gavin Free & Fiona Nova
Series: the hope that you provide [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2105376
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	for you, the world

**Author's Note:**

> lmao this is so long i don't think this can count as a one-shot any longer...........
> 
> YES I'm using another techno quote 
> 
> Anyway, I have a list of people i need to mention before we carry on with this because i have taken so much inspiration from so many places:  
> FIRST subwaywalls and patrichor on ao3, because I scoured their fics for inspo to write fight scenes and trying to pace both narrative and action and just, their fics are great, please check them out!  
> SECOND, chrysalizzm (also on ao3) because i love how they wrote the festival scene in you're human tonight and also how they write characters that are not Entirely Human and i re-read it a lot while writing!  
> THIRD, dewdropstar_ - now she hasn't written any mc fic but she's my girlfriend and i love her and she's a great writer and an incredible person so pls give her some love because she has had to put up with me for so long  
> i also re-watched a bunch of the witcher fight scenes and a bunch of Fiona and Gavin vids for Research okay
> 
> I AM EMO FOR GAVIN AND FIONA FRIENDSHIP  
> I AM EMO FOR MICHAEL AND FIONA FRIENDSHIP 
> 
> if you spot all the dsmp references you are legally obligated to comment /j (but pls comment i Need Validation)

Fiona sometimes wonders if she used to be human. She doesn’t remember a time when her heritage was not this huge weight on her back. She doesn’t remember a time when she didn’t feel that pull, the call for adventure, for chaos, for blood. It is why she grew up alone; no one could tame her, even if she wanted to be tamed. She doesn’t remember a time when she wasn’t alone, living off the scraps that others left behind. Logically, she knows that someone must have cared for her, must have helped her, but they are lost to her now. She has always been alone. She steals and she lies and she cheats, and she just about makes it every day. 

She sets herself up on the outskirts of a small village, right next to a dark forest, and lives, half-ranger, half-rogue, fully wild. She hunts in between the trees as a wolf does, and is just as silent as she makes her way through the marketplace of the village, palming what small items she cannot create herself. She learns; here is where she can find clean water in the woods, here is a market stall where they never keep an eye on their food, the bakery always leaves out extra bread that they didn't sell. 

(Fiona doesn’t know, will never know, but that was always deliberate. A captain always knows a duckling when she sees one. She knows that undisguised help will only scare her off. So she wraps her baker's food in cloth, and she hides what else she can, and pretends to throw away food.)

She remains alone. Part of it is her fear, and part of it is the fear of others. The call of her blood frightens her, though she does not admit it. She knows how it feels to lose herself in the hunt, and sometimes she comes back to herself only a few metres away from town, blood on her hands and the chase pounding in her heart.

She can hurt people. She knows that. ( _ Blood on her hands her clothes, questions on their last breath, broken and bleeding and torn,  _ **_mine mine mine_ ** )

From others, even if she isn’t obviously a mobling, the signs are there. Superior hearing, sight, smell. Her heterochromia, one of her eyes a dark brown, the other… Honestly, it’s difficult to tell. A swirling mix of purple and crimson and deep dark blue, a mix that shouldn’t work and almost certainly isn’t human when you look at it long enough. Even she doesn’t know what she is, and humans have always feared what they don’t understand.

Fiona learns; this is where they will hunt you, this is where they will chase you for taking what is not yours, for the heritage in your veins that no one can see but somehow they all still sense. Fiona knows the world is cruel, knows it is cold, and keeps to her woods and her wilds and her ways. She stays alone, as she always has been, and she doesn't remember a life before. 

She doesn’t remember a time before; except for all the times that she does. 

Dreams of dreams, of half-faded memories in the morning light, snatches of emotion and words from people she knows with all her heart but she sees through strangers eyes. After dreaming for nearly twenty years, she still only has a half vague idea of what she sees every night. 

Darkness. Void and black, darker than night, the very fabric of the world around them showing only encompassing infinity, the islands floating in this space that should not exist. The pillars, constructed or formed, it was impossible to tell, for they all had one single purpose. To keep the god of this world alive. 

Sometimes, she is alone, facing off against a creature who is both terrible and beautiful, a creature that she knows is there but cannot see, that swoops in out of the dark to let loose a stream of violent violet, an attack that freezes and burns all at once. 

Most of the time, though, she is not. There are others beside her, and their faces blur and fade like a reflection in a brook, and she  _ knows  _ them. Knows their hearts, their minds, their very soul, and yet, she can never remember their names. 

They stand, she and her nameless brethren, against the end. One is slain in quick succession, and the grief rips through her anew each night. When she runs to shelter, when she fumbles her bow, she does so in the strange way of dreams; slow and sticky, knowing you won’t make it in time and everything is useless, pointless. But still, she tries. 

Time skips, hops, jumps, and suddenly she is doubled over with a searing pain in her side, pain that follows her into wakefulness, phantom limbs for an injury she never really had. 

There’s a man running towards her, and she cannot make out his face, but there is fear in his eyes and she trusts him. Trusting has always been in short supply in Fiona’s life, and thus the trust she gives to a stranger in her dreams of her mayfly memories is worthy of note. 

She trusts him, and she holds out her arms to him, knowing she is safe, knowing she will be protected -

A jolt of agony and she is slipping, sliding, and there are arms around her, warm and gentle. When she was younger, these were always the best part of the dreams. She knows she is dying, each breath ragged and the taste of copper in her mouth that will stay with her for the rest of her waking day. She is dying, but she is happy, because when she is awake, no one holds her as the stranger in her dreams does. 

He mouths words, but they buzz like flies in her ears, and she cannot make them out between that and the roaring of the beast. She tries to say something, anything, and her waking mind wants to ask who he is, why he’s here, why he is in her dreams, anything, but instead half-formed words slip past her lips. 

_ “Dad, Dad, ‘m sorry, Dad, sorry -” _

A soft and gentle hand brushes her hair out of her face, and holds her as the world goes from colour to grey to monochrome, and all she can see is a face she won’t even remember when she wakes up. She is overwhelmed by the utter care that envelops her when she is laid to rest.

She knows it is a dream, not because she wakes up, but because she has no one. 

She has no-one, until, one day, she does. 

For a thief, living on the edges of the woods and the outskirts of society, she has a soft heart. Not that she would admit it. Just because she is alone, doesn’t mean others have to be. She has lived beside this village for years now, and she knows that she should move on, but something always stops her. She’s comfortable here. It isn’t like the city, where she had to watch out for guards and always, always there would be something new that the lord of the castle would introduce and send another round of people to jail. The deep dark depths of the wilds has always been just a bit too quiet for Fiona - alone, but far too isolated. She’s always been a bit of a people watcher, and this town has just the right level of bustle, just out of the way enough to keep it from the lord’s greedy hands, and she’s… she’s happy here. Even when her blood sings for adventure, croons for destruction, she stays, and doesn’t entirely know why. 

(It’s hers, they’re hers, they’re hers, the bakery and the library and the small port for fishing and the red banners hung from the windows in summer and the blue ones that ring in the winter, the lanterns of spring and the old woman who still makes each and every one. Even if she has never spoken to them, she knows each face, each brick in the path, each lantern and fire. They’re hers, and possessiveness keeps her stable, keeps her grounded. She slips leftover food in between hungry hands, because she always hunts too much for one person, gives coins that have no use to her but mean everything to the kids she gives it too. 

Here is another thing Fiona doesn’t know; she earns herself a legend. The witch of the woods, the silent protector; they don’t ever see her eyes, but they don’t have to in order to know that she is kind. No full mobs have made it near the town in years. The traders leave offerings where they know she will pick them up. Children play outside at dusk, and watch the sunset, and know that they are safe. They are hers, and she will keep them safe.)

When the rumblings of war make their terrible way to her village, she does what she can to shield them. She confuses soldiers sent out to round up men for war, leading them in circles in her woods, guards the traders as they move out of her territory, makes sure that battles are well out of her way. She doesn’t like this lord, but she has no desire to take part in what they have started to call the Kingdom Wars. 

That is, until she finds a caravan of soldiers, a small contingent guarding what looks like a supplies cart, covered and secure. One of the farmers had had a bad crop, and the soldiers kept taking their food to feed their men. Well, Fiona is against cannibalism as a concept, but eating the rich is still a viable option, so she watches as the cart rumbles onward. It looks like it’s headed to the war camp several miles east, but the thought of it makes her frown. The soldiers came for food from the town a few days ago, they shouldn’t need it anymore. If anything, that is what convinces her. She isn’t going to let her people starve while these soldiers gorge themselves like pigs. 

There are only a few men, and Fiona is still only one woman with a knife and a bow, but she has surprise on her side. The two men at the back are on the ground with an arrow in each of their necks before anyone has a chance to turn around, and the sound of an arrow hitting the tree right in front of the leaders on horseback causes their mounts to pull up in panic. Her knife is in the back of the man steering the cart as they turn around, and she is gone just as quickly. 

She doesn’t enjoy violence, so she goes for the kill as quickly and efficiently as possible. An arrow grazes past her elbow, but apart from that, the guards are so surprised, on this backwater road where there should be no one, that it is very easy to kill them. She’s good at what she does; perhaps not always refined, not always level-headed, but she knows what she’s doing. 

Once she is done, she collects her arrows, and cleans her dagger on the blades of grass on the side of the road, lifesblood returning to the earth. She allows herself a quick moment to paw through the guards belongings; nothing really of value, a few coin purses that she pockets quickly and will probably leave by the doorway to the bakery, since she overheard the captain planning another voyage soon. 

She isn’t expecting it, then, when she opens the back of the cart, and finally sees what's inside. 

Her dagger slips from her hand, landing on the ground with a dull  _ thunk  _ as she stares at the half-dozen frightened faces. 

The first thing she realises is that they are all moblings. There’s blazes with smouldering ash for eyes and gentle embers for hair. There’s ghasts, tears falling down their face and solidifying on their cheeks. Enders, eyes wide and blinking and staring anywhere but another's eyes. Piglins, tusks and bulk, small and curled in on themselves. There’s even a couple of ram and goat moblings, their horns brushing the top of the cart. 

The second thing she realises is that they are all children. 

“Please,” says a blaze-child, and their voice breaks Fiona’s heart, broken down and terrified, “Please don’t hurt us.”

“I- I won’t,” Fiona says, once she is able to form words again, once her shock wears off, “I won’t hurt you. The soldiers are gone, you’re safe.”

“Promise?” Another kid, half-enderman, half… ghast, she thinks, sniffles. Their tears leave scars on the darker half of their face. 

"I promise,” Fiona says, her words thick on her tongue, and she holds out a hand to the kids, “I know somewhere you can stay before we get you back home, alright?”

She leads them carefully around the bodies, trying to keep them as far away from any of the blood as she can. Night is falling, and she tells them to hold on tight to each other and never let go; she has no idea what mobs might be hiding in the trees. Ultimately, she ends up carrying a couple, one of the goat children clinging to her back and the half-enderman held in her arms. He’s the youngest of the bunch, and he’s too tired to walk anymore, so she picks him up and holds him despite the fact that this is the only time she’s ever held anyone else like this. He doesn’t seem to notice her discomfort, snuggling close to her and twisting his small fingers into her coat. Her heart breaks a little more. 

Normally, it takes her less than thirty minutes to get from where she was to the village, but the moon is high in the sky by the time she sees the lanterns in the distance, and several of the kids are dead on their feet. But they’re all still alive, and they’re all still holding on as Fiona knocks on the door to the bakery. 

The captain answers the door, blinking sleep from her eyes, but her ears (long, furry, like a sheep), prick up in alarm as she sees what’s outside. 

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Fiona says, and she really didn’t. She just knew that the captain and her baker had a soft spot for kids, that they always had spare food, that the captain was a mobling too and would be more likely to shelter these kids. 

The captain blinks back at her. No wonder; for all the years Fiona has been here, the two have never exchanged a word. What a sight she must look like now, bloody and with two kids clinging to her, the rest following behind in a mute line.

“There were soldiers,” Fiona explains, haltingly, “I thought it was a supply wagon, they were taking them to the camp.”

Blazes and ghasts, with their fire and piglins with their strength; moblings could be very potent weapons in the right hands. Even children. 

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Fiona says again, as the enderman boy yawns, curls his hand into the fabric of her coat. 

The captain hesitates for a moment longer, and Fiona holds her breath, “Come inside,” she says, finally, “I’ll make up some beds, and then tomorrow we can work on getting you guys home to your parents, okay?”

She calls over her shoulder, as the kids file in, “Niki! We’ve got guests!”

Fiona lingers on the doorstep, watching the children go. She carefully places the enderman boy on the ground, rousing him from his brief doze, pulling his grip off her coat and nudging him into the house; only for him to quickly wrap his arms around her legs in a brief hug, before running after the others. Maybe it’s the first hug she’s ever had in her life. She wouldn’t know. 

Fiona steps back, turns, but before she can disappear into darkness -

“Duckling?” 

Fiona freezes. She doesn’t turn to the captain, doesn’t know what she would say if she asked Fiona to stay as well, and even still, a part of her wants to whirl around and object to the nickname. 

“You did good,” The captain says instead, “You didn’t have to save them. But you did,”

Fiona turns back to the captain, pulling out the collection of coin purses she took from the guards, and just a couple of her own. 

“Here. This should help until they all get home.”

“Please wait!” 

Fiona stops midstep, mid-turn; her human eye glances the woman up and down, warily.

“What’s your name? I can’t call everyone duckling, I’ve already got enough of them,” she asks. 

Fiona stands still. Even these brief words have been the most she’s said to another person in years. She’s never had anyone to tell (not in this life, anyway). The word sticks in her throat, and every second she waits is a moment where the weight of her life, her heritage, gets heavier. 

“Fiona. My name is Fiona.”

* * *

From the day they met, Michael, Gavin and Fiona got on like a house on fire. Which is to say, they burned their bridges, scorched their prides and left utter chaos and destruction in their wake. Half the time, they scrap like alley cats, a fighting instinct that overwhelms any level of sensibility that might have arisen. The other half of the time, they are a terrifying force of nature, and some of Geoff’s best fighters. 

Hence why the three of them are out in the middle of nowhere, trying to intercept a supply wagon, with no back-up and no way of getting out should things go south. Which, when it’s the three of them, they will inevitably do. But they’ve always gotten out of it before, so none of them are particularly worried. In fact, Michael is leading the group, despite Fiona claiming that she knows the area, as Fiona and Gavin bicker about whether the berries she slapped out of his hand were actually poisonous or not. 

“I hate you, I hate you, you’re gonna fucking die and I’m not gonna stop you,”

“Fiona, come on, I grew up in the woods, I know what’s gonna kill me,”

“No, nope, don’t talk to me, you’re not allowed to talk to me anymore, I hate you,”

“It’s 10am and you’ve said you hate me twice-”

“Will you two shut up?” Michael snaps, annoyance edging his words, even though he knows exactly what these two are like, “We’re getting closer, they’ll hear us.”

They glance at each other, and Michael sighs as he hears the telltale sound of suppressed giggles.

Suddenly, he holds a hand up, and they all stop in their tracks, even as Gavin almost trips over his own feet, and Fiona opens her mouth to make a comment about it but the look on Michael’s face stops her. 

“I can smell smoke,” He says, “And lots of it. Fi, is there a village near here?”

Fiona goes pale, her eyes widening in an expression of fear that Gavin hasn’t ever seen on her face before. 

Then she starts to run, and it’s all that the boys can do to keep up with her. There is panic in every careless stride, uncontrolled and wild in a way that they have never seen in their friend, and they can’t even shout for her because it would give them away even more. 

They keep running, even as the smoke goes from just being a smell in their air to being a taste, burying deep in their lungs, and they finally see the blaze on the horizon.

Gavin does his best to keep his eyes off of it, knowing that the sight of flames in thatched roofs and the vague shadows of people still running and fighting for their lives will only distract him, but there is nothing that he can do to block out the screams. 

By the time they reach the first on the edge of the village, it has almost gone silent. Michael manages to put one last burst of speed behind him and grabs onto Fiona’s arm, pulling her back from running headlong into the still burning village. 

There are no longer screams coming from the village, but there are still shouts; calls of joy, laughter, and Gavin feels sick. This wasn’t a raid, some flashfire attack from bandits or ravagers; no, as he watches the flag of the lord hitch higher in the sky, this was a massacre. 

There are bodies, charred and smoking faintly in the morning sun, laid out like some sick rug, gore spread uncaring across the ground. Several buildings are black and hollow, roofs collapsed in, and any left standing are still burning. The soldiers milling around don’t seem to care, rubbing shoulders with each other and joking as they rummage through the wreckage. 

He can’t tell what is soot and what is blood, and the thought alone makes him want to turn around and run back into the trees. Even if they knew this was happening, there would have been nothing they could have done. They were too far away, they couldn’t have gotten there in time. It doesn’t help the gnawing guilt. 

“Fiona,” Michael says, and Gavin turns to them, as Michael struggles to hold Fiona back, “Fiona, there is nothing we can do for them now,”

Fiona isn’t listening to him, but the fact that  _ Michael  _ is struggling to hold her, is worrying. 

Gavin steps around to the front of Fiona, and is horrified to see his friends face drenched with tears. He has never seen her like this, and is coming to the realisation that for all of their time spent together, spent as the others shadow, maybe he doesn’t know her as well as he thought. 

“Fiona, please,” He says, in the voice that he normally reserves for lessons, patient and kind, “Fiona, if you go, you’ll die.”

Her eyes finally focus on him, the fire and the blood and the violence reflected deep within and he knows even if she’s not looking at it, she is still seeing it. 

“It’s my village,” She says, choking on a sob, and  _ oh _ , oh no, “It’s my village, it’s mine, they were mine, the bakery and the lanterns and they were mine, it’s mine,”

“Oh, Fiona,” Gavin says, and his tone softens, and he reaches up to hug her. He doesn’t blame Michael for thinking they were okay, for loosening his grip. The moment he does, though, Fiona is off, pushing past Gavin and Michael with single-minded determination. The brief glimpse of her face chills Gavin to the bone. 

It only takes a moment for them to start after all, because fuck if they are going to let their sister run headlong into danger without them behind her. But it’s only been a few seconds and she is already far, far ahead of them, far faster than anyone has any right to be, like there are invisible wings propelling her along.

(In Fiona’s mind, she is drowning underneath the salty taste of grief, allowing it to immolate her even as she gasps for breath and her blood pounds in her ears, and she doesn’t want to let go, she knows the boys are behind her but it rushes forward and into her nose and mouth and ears and if she is tasting iron then she isn’t grieving. Fiona sees red. It clouds the memories of burning homes and eviscerated corpses, and she is thankful for it as she slips between the waves. For once, her blood and her heart beat with the same desire: make them pay.  _ Make them pay _ )

Now, Gavin knows that Fiona isn’t entirely human. He’s been around enough moblings and has the self-same fire and brimstone in his veins, and contrary to popular belief, he isn’t stupid. He knows Fiona isn’t human, but she wants to pretend that she is. She hasn’t been open, despite the fact that moblings are clearly welcome in the rebellion, despite the fact that Gavin flexes his creeper-ness every moment he can. He doesn’t want to break what they have, so he waits, watching as Fiona trusts them a little more each day, like a feral cat learning to like humans. 

But what he sees when he rounds the corner is beyond anything he has ever seen a mobling do. Fiona isn’t the most elegant fighter; a consequence of growing up when the priority was to kill quickly; eliminate the threat as fast as possible, assess the damage later. It’s why they work so well together. Better to have someone with range protecting your back, and Michael was able to work with her to marry the more amatur and wild aspects of her fighting style.

This isn’t efficient. This is just violence. Fiona is barely even using her weapon, moving faster than either of them have ever seen. There are two fresh corpses already on the ground, one of them missing a head, the other seemingly torn from neck to navel. She has another soldier by the throat, pushing him up against the scorched wall of what was once a bakery. Between one blink and the next, her sword is deep in his gut, pulling out with a spray of blood that stains her clothes. She doesn’t flinch, merely stalking towards the rest of the soldiers. 

They are scrambling for their weapons, trying to get to their feet when before they had been laughing and joking around a pyre. The first to try and cross blades loses an arm, and his scream is cut off a second later as she jams a dagger through his open mouth, ripping his jaw from his skull. The second manages to block her for a second before she sends the weapon spinning out of his hand, and her sword is in her throat. 

“Fiona!” Gavin cries; perhaps partially involuntarily, he isn’t sure, but when she turns to look at him, all the colour drains from his face. 

She’s breathing deeply, iron and ash and death in the air and in the firelight, her eyes are dark, wild. Her expression slowly splits into a feral grin, something tainted by rage and hatred, and he can almost hear the demented laughter as she launches once again into her attack. Whatever has caught her, it will, at the very least, not let her go until every last soldier is dead. 

Three of them converge on her at once and Michael stumbles forward, Gavin raises his arrow but she has a sword through the first before either of them can blink. She isn’t quite fast enough though, to block the blade that twists under wrist, forcing her to drop her sword. 

The next second, she has a sword through her right shoulder. When she howls in pain, it is utterly savage, animal. The soldier backs away, clearly hoping the fight is done, but then....

Then Fiona grips the handle of the sword in her left hand, and  _ pulls _ . Before either of them can react, she has sliced off a head with their own sword, and it ends up buried in the others neck. Both fall to the ground. 

By now, there is a litany of fresh bodies, blood bleeding into the earth. There are barely a handful of men left, and even though their weapons are raised, neither Michael nor Gavin step forward to stop her. Even as her movements get even more aggressive, even when fury propels her movements, they do not stop her. They dare not. 

Finally, finally, the last soldier falls to the floor, blood gushing from his chest and his eyes empty. Fiona stands, with her back to them, breathing heavily. 

“Fiona?” Michael asks, putting a hand forward to stop Gavin, “Fifi?”

Fiona’s head snaps around, and a fresh thrill of horror runs through him. Fiona does not blink as she gazes upon them both, her eyes devoid of emotion or recognition. They are both that dark dark purple now, swirling with the depth of the entire universe, the void in her eyes. And the void is hungry. She snarls, exposes bloody teeth and moves like a predator.

Michael only just manages to get his sword up in time to block her strike as she moves, fury incarnate. Each blow rivals a giant in its intensity, and Gavin pulls his own sword, trying to divert some of her attention, even if he swears to himself he isn’t going to hurt her. 

Neither of them fight back, only remaining to deflect her blows, to try and shout her back to herself. There is no one listening; only the dead. 

It is only with both of them that they are able to match their sister, step for step, and when Gavin moves to flank her, Michael takes advantage of the distraction enough to knock the sword from her hand. She tries to go in for a punch, resorting to hands and fists to continue, but her right arm is injured and so it isn’t impossible for Michael to wrap her in a tight, restraining hug. 

It pins her arms to her sides, and she struggles to even kick; Mchael is uninjured and after all, even with everything, she is still Fiona. And she still loves them. 

Gavin is privy to her expression as she writhes against the arms holding her. At first, it seems as if she isn’t listening to Michaels quiet voice in her ear, but her struggling slows as Gavin steps forward, takes one of her hands in his own, and makes sure to meet her unfocused eyes, still gripped in grief and rage. 

“It’s okay,” He says, not knowing if she can hear him, or if she even wants too, “It’s okay, Fiona.”

Her hands fall limp to her sides, and she slumps in Michael’s arms. It’s easier for them all to lower themselves gently to the floor, and a moment later, Fiona blinks, and yes, there are her eyes; confused, distressed, but  _ hers _ , all the same. She recognises them, which is a lot better than a moment before. 

“Welcome back,” Michael says, still holding her tightly, but an embrace of comfort, not of restraint. 

“Mikey,” Fiona says, soft and, to Gavin’s horror, afraid, “Did I hurt you? Either of you?”

She looks between both of them anxiously, and Gavin squeezes her hand reassuringly, “Not us, love. Only those that deserved it.”

“I…” She starts, her eyes flickering to the ruins of the village, before she closes her eyes, and curls herself into Michael’s side. He does very well not to startle, only coming up to cradle her, even as he feels the damp patch on his arm where her eyes are hidden, “I wanna go home.”

“Okay,” Michael says, taking her trust and holding it tight, holding it close; he and Gavin exchange a look and they both know that no matter what, they won’t talk to anyone else about this, not until Fiona brings it up first, and Fiona is vulnerable and bleeding in their arms, the ruins of what once was hers around her, “Okay. Let’s go home.”

* * *

Achievement City isn’t quite home anymore, and Fiona hates it. She hates that she’s stuck lurking on the top of buildings like she used to, and not because she likes being high above the world. She hates sneaking unharmed through a city where citizens are being hurt in every home. She hates feeling above and apart from her people, when she should be down there, among them. 

On the surface, things look calm. Children run through the various stalls of the festival, there are tables overladen with food that is open to all, friends talk and laugh together and there are even a few stalls that are showing festival games. The colours are joyful, banners and lights draped all over, but it just makes Fiona feel sick. It’s hollow, like a picture on a wall hiding black mold. Even the veneer of festivities cannot hide the thrum of anxiety that echoes in everyone below her. 

Michael and Lindsay are somewhere down there, she knows. Hoods up and stepping softly among the crowd, and they might not even be close to each other, and they aren’t ones for stealth but if push comes to shove, they need them down there to fight. Jack and Geoff are hidden below in the tunnels, listening carefully for their cue. Trevor and Alfredo are watching from their stall, nervousness hidden under their disguises, though it's clear that any customer they get knows exactly who they are. Ify, she spots as she flits from rooftop to rooftop, rubbing shoulders and passing weapons out to a few of his people. Just the sight of him relaxes the bundle of anxiety in her chest, even if for only a moment. 

She feels it the moment the atmosphere of the festival changes. It’s like a wave, a storm cloud unrolling across the entire city, broiling bitterness and overwhelming despair. She hates that it feels like giving up. Even the kids stop, running back to hide behind their parents, dread permeates every aspect of the festival, as all eyes turn to the stage. 

First up is Matt, fiddling with the redstone mechanism that will amplify the king’s voice, before stepping back and assuming his role as a wallflower, trying his best not to be noticed. She cannot look at him for too long without distress clawing up her throat. This is Matt broken; Matt beaten down. 

Jeremy steps up next, his armour polished and flashy; decoration rather than protection. Fiona watches as his eyes flick to Matt and he has to swallow the urge to go and stand beside his friend. 

There is silence as the king steps forward, smiling as he strides confidently across the stage, but Fiona isn’t really watching him. She is watching his shadow, the man who is a step behind him. Gavin looks awful; his hair is limp and lifeless and instead of his usual golden trimmed robes, he is wearing something that is black and lined with silver; matching the king’s. His face is blank, a carefully schooled expression that betrays absolutely nothing, and Fiona hates it with every fibre of her being. 

That’s not her Gavin, not her brother. All of the warmth and love and humour has been drained out of him, leaving behind only the king’s advisor and even knowing that he is on their side doesn't relieve this feeling of utter loss. 

Gods, she wants to make him smile. 

Instead, she can only watch as he stays to the right of the king as he steps up to the front of the stage, his voice projected across the nervous crowds. 

“Welcome one, welcome all, to this celebration of our kingdom,” He says, “Indeed, a celebration of this new Achievement City that has been brought about by my rule. A celebration of the process to rightful rule, a celebration of the law, of this brand new era of peace. Peace, without the tyrants that used to rule, who refused to respect the laws that they themselves implemented. Who only ever allowed their family to rule and I ask you, what kind of justice was that?”

The crowd was silent. Fiona’s hand slips to her waist, to where her sword is sheathed, and to the left of it; a pouch containing a single ender pearl. 

(“Just in case,” Jack had said, curling his hand around hers and the pearl and pressing a kiss to her forehead. It felt far too much like a goodbye, “Just in case.”)

“But together, we can make this country better than it has ever been before! Using the knowledge of our past, and the ambitions of our future, together, we can make this country great!”

Gavin begins to clap, more out of politeness than anything, and a smattering of applause spreads out over the crowd. 

“It is only because of the aid of those around me,” He swings around his arm, “Those who saw the promise of law and order and stayed true to their oath to the people! Now, none of this would have been possible without Gavin Free! He suggested the festival, he helped to plan it all, so when my most loyal servant wanted a chance to speak to the people he serves, who am I to deny him?” the king steps back, acquiescing the floor to the shadow behind him, “The floor is yours.”

“Thank you, my liege,” Gavin says, mild as milk. He walks forward, and for a moment, Fiona swears that their eyes meet as he sweeps over the crowd. 

“Welcome to the festival!” He starts, and a brittle smile spreads across his face. Only Fiona, and maybe Michael in the crowd, can see how close it is to breaking, “Welcome, as our king said, to this wonderful celebration that I know everyone has worked so hard on. Looking at you all, I can really see what makes our country such a beautiful place. I would like you to look at what we have built today, at what you have built, and understand that there is more that unites us, than divides us. We have fought for our freedom, and this festival is a celebration of that freedom! And I won’t keep you from enjoying that freedom any longer, so, thank you everyone for coming-”

He cuts himself off, turning with confusion as a low noise comes from beside him. The source chills Fiona to her bones. 

The king is laughing; a low chuckle, edged with danger. 

“My liege?” Gavin asks. 

“Are you done with your speech?” The king says instead, still with that hollow mirth in his tone. 

“Yes, I, uh, let the festival begin!”

That’s the signal, but before Fiona can move into action, the king leans over and presses a small button to the side of the amplifier. She freezes as thick slabs of stone rise from the podium, and cement themselves deliberately around Gavin. His eyes widen, hands out to brace himself against the box he has found himself trapped in. He has nothing; no weapons, no tools, no way of getting himself out unless the king releases him. 

“M-my liege?” He says, and even though he is trying to hide the shaking in his voice, he is very clearly failing. 

“Now then, Gavin,” the king says, his smile all teeth and malice and Fiona feels sick with dread, “You haven’t been entirely honest with the people, have you?”

“I-I don’t know what you mean, sire-”

“I don’t know what you mean, he says,” The king tuts in disapproval; behind him, Jeremy looks on with abject horror, Matt has his shoulders hiked up to his ears, curled up and in on himself, looking like he is wishing he was literally anywhere else, “I think you know exactly what I mean, you filthy  _ traitor _ ,”

_ Fuck _ .

A ripple of noise echoes through the crowd, the unease growing, and it is only the encroaching presence of the palace guard that stops the murmurs, despite the stricken look in Jeremy’s eyes. 

“My liege, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I swear to you, I’m not-”

“Don’t,” the king snarls, the anger breaking through his calm facade and Gavin flinches back, “lie to me, Gavin Free. I know what you’ve been doing. Conspiring with traitors? Meeting with them outside of the city? Giving them state secrets, letting them plot against me for the throne?”

Gavin’s jaw clenches, “I am not a traitor! I am not the one ordering mass arrests! I am not the one who will turn this kingdom into a shadow of its former self! I am trying to save this kingdom!”

A cruel grin spreads across the king's face, “You see? He admits it! He is not even loyal to his own cause!”

“You goddamn son of an arse,” Gavin says, his anger spilling out of him all at once, “You  _ stole  _ the crown, you lied and cheated and exiled the people who cared most about this place!”

“Cared? None of them cared about this kingdom. None of them wanted to find it’s true potential. Regardless, none of that matters right now. Do you know what happens to  _ traitors  _ in this kingdom?”

“I am more than willing to die,” Gavin snaps back, even as Jeremy startles forward with a protest on his lips.

“Your majesty, he’s already imprisoned, there should be a trial-”

“You  _ lost  _ the fight, Dooley” The king says, and Jeremy shrinks back, “You are no king. Don’t forget what you can lose at a snap of my fingers.”

Jeremy pales, stepping closer to Matt as if to shield him. 

“And you,” He turns back to Gavin, and though he is trying to stand tall, even Fiona can see him shaking, “You think that however I kill you, it won’t matter, because you will be a martyr. I’m going to show you exactly how wrong you are. My sword, if you could?”

The crowd has been growing restless, kept in line by the weapons around them alone, and Fiona can see the purple of Lindsay’s hair as they stare up at the podium, unafraid for themselves and terrified for Gavin, she can see the set in Ify’s shoulders, and though she can’t see Jack and Geoff, she knows they are tense, terrified. 

It grows deathly silent, however, as a familiar figure makes their way through the crowd, drops their cloak and climbs onto the stage. 

“Michael,” Gavin blanches, face ashen, horrified in a way he wasn’t before, “Michael, what are you doing?”

“My sword,” the king croons, placing a hand on Michael’s shoulder, “You know what I would like you to do.”

“My liege?” Michael asks, his tone far too flat and far too calm for the situation, his hand resting on his sword like he isn’t addressing the man they’ve been fighting against. 

“Oh, I know you’re just a weapon, but you’re smarter than that,” the king replies, “Kill him. And make sure they all see.”

Fiona can’t breathe. Her breath stutters and stops in her lungs, iced over, and she can’t  _ breathe  _ because Michael is pulling out his sword and advancing on the box that Gavin is stuck in, he isn’t stopping, he doesn’t falter and  _ her brothers are going to kill each other _ . 

Maybe it’s a mistake. But it’s the only thing she can do. 

She throws the pearl with all her might, and she’s not an archer on the same level as Gavin but her aim is solid, and a second later, her feet hit the wood of the stage and she hears shouts echo through the ensemble. Her sword is already up, Gavin gasps “Fiona,” behind her, but she only has eyes for the man in front of her. 

“Michael,” she says, fighting to keep her voice steady, “Stop.”

He doesn’t even blink. He merely glances to the king as if for confirmation, and his sword does not shake. 

“So wonderful for you to join us,” the king says, and horribly, he actually sounds delighted, “I was wondering what it would take for you to leave your little hidey-hole. Good to know you only care about him when he’s about to die.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Fiona snaps, as Jeremy steps forward, still with an arm stretched protectively in front of Matt. 

“Michael, this is insane,” He says, “Come on, this isn’t right,”

“I assure you, it very much is,” the king says, still smiling horribly, “He is my sword, my weapon, my blade. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, my liege,” Michael replies, in that same tone, as if he isn’t still holding a sword towards his sister, towards  _ Gavin _ . 

“Michael!” Fiona says, drawing his attention back to her, “Michael, please. Tell me this isn’t real. Tell me he’s wrong.” 

Her voice cracks, even as Michael narrows his eyes, and drops into a fighting stance. The king starts to laugh. 

“Come now. You couldn’t defeat me. Do you really think you can defeat Mogar?”

Fiona’s gaze flits up, bounces between Gavin, still stuck in that godsdamned box, to Jeremy and Matt, devastated, to Lindsay in the crowd, heartbroken, to the faces of the people she was supposed to protect. 

“For them,” she says, and readies herself, “ _ easily _ .”

When their swords clash, they are not the only ones. As she pushes Michael backwards with the force of her strike, she sees cloaks thrown to the floor, weapons drawn by Ify and Lindsay and the people who have been tired of the king's shit for far too long. Jeremy grabs his sword, pulls off his shitty decorative armour and jumps to the defense as Matt runs forward to try and lower the mechanism holding Gavin in place. 

Behind her, the city erupts, and she sees a flash of fear in the king’s eyes, before she has to start forward to block Michael’s blow.

Gavin yelps and ducks just in time as Michael’s sword plunges straight down towards him, only diverted last minute by Fiona’s strike. Fiona keeps up the lightning strike pace of attacks, trying to draw Michael away from Gavin and Matt, and it’s mostly working. The problem is that, unlike their training sessions, or even when they spar, Fiona gets the distinct impression that Michael is actually trying to kill her. She bites down on the realisation and focuses on swinging the flat of the blade into his chest. 

He turns at just the wrong angle, and her blade slices straight across his chest. She chokes in horror as she watches blood bloom from the tear in his shirt, exposing the wound and-

Matt inhales sharply, eyes wide, “He didn’t-” 

The distraction is enough for Michael to clap her around the head with the blunt part of his sword and her back hits the wooden part of the stage with a dull thump. There is pressure on her throat, the cold metal of a blade and her breath hitches. 

She hears a shout, “My sword, to me!” and the pressure is lifted. 

She blinks, seeing Jeremy now above her and holding out a hand. When she stands, Gavin is out of the box, helped by Matt, but Matt doesn’t look happy at all.

“Gav, are you okay?” She asks, quickly pressing a hand to his shoulder, and he nods, shakily.Beside him, Matt looks utterly wrecked, his face pale and stricken. On one hand, it could be the fighting that is continuing behind them. On the other…

“What did you see?” Fiona says, rounding on Matt, “What did you see,  _ Matt? _ ! Because I know that isn’t Michael, I know he wouldn’t do that-”

“I don’t have much time to explain, but it’s an enchantment, no, seriously dude,” He gestures at the riot continuing behind them, “we really don’t have time for me to explain how we got enchantments onto people, but that’s got to be what it is. Michael wouldn’t do this.”

“He was going to kill me,” Gavin says, broken, quiet, and Matt’s face falls. 

“He might not have a choice.”

“Fiona!” A familiar shout pierces through the air, and they turn, and Fiona can’t help the relief as she sees Lindsay and Jack running towards them, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, we’re fine,” She brushes them off, “What about the others?”

“Ify is cutting down guards like they’re butter,” Lindsay replies, and Jeremy winces, “The twins are trying to get the civilians out, anyone that can’t or won’t fight.”

“What about Geoff?” Gavin asks, pressingly. 

Jack’s face goes very serious, very quickly, “He saw where the king ran, he followed, I couldn’t stop him-”

_ “What?” _

“We have to go, I have no idea how far ahead they are,” and Jack is already moving, and Fiona and Gavin exchange a look, and immediately start after him, the others not far behind. 

* * *

Outside, the city is in chaos. The streets are full, guards and townspeople, bakers and soldiers and engineers and weaponsmiths and traitors and loyalists, all are up in arms, and the fire at the heart of the nation burns bright with martyrs blood. Inside the castle, the thick stone walls block out the screams and clashes of battle. Inside the castle, the corridors are still and silent. 

Inside the castle, Fiona, and her family make their way through the halls as quickly and silently as possible. It’s difficult, considering there are a lot of them, but she gets the feeling that none of them want to be separated. Not when Jack and Gavin are staying tight to her side. Not when they’re searching for the missing parts of their family. 

The throne room is ahead, and Fiona has an unfortunate inkling that this is where the tyrant will make his final stand. He will want to be remembered. He will want to desecrate their home with even more violence, even as his kingdom falls down around him. 

But when they turn the corner, into the entrance hall, she sees that the tyrant didn’t make it to his destination in time. 

He is fiddling with something redstone related, pushing buttons to the side of the door, listening intently as the mechanisms click into place. In front of him, Michael stands, and Fiona’s breath catches in her throat. There is blood on his sword, and Geoff… Geoff lies wheezing on the ground in front of him. There is no expression in Michael’s eyes. His shirt is torn, and the enchantment on his chest pulses with purple light. 

“My liege,” He says, flat and emotionless and so unlike Michael that Fiona can feel Lindsay bristling beside her. The tyrant presses one last button, and turns to the group.

“Ah,” He says, distaste in his tone, “I had hoped you would take longer. No matter. My sword, dispose of them.”

So clinical. So cold. Michael’s hand does not shake as his sword rises to point at them. The tyrant smiles, throws it over his shoulder as he slips through the doors, and then several people move at once. Jack and Matt run for Geoff, and Michael’s sword swings down, no mercy in his strike. 

Lindsay’s sword meets his, and the clash of steel on steel echoes in the chamber. 

“Michael,” they say, “Michael,  _ please _ ,”

Fiona is reminded, then, of the fancy balls and diplomatic parties that were often held, of watching the couple dance their way around the ballroom with the grace of fighters, with the movement of killers. It was a dance then, and it is the same now. 

Lindsay moves, and Michael moves with them, mirroring each other strike for strike. It’s like water, like a rushing river coming to meet stone, Lindsay’s face already wet with tears as they stare into the impassive face of their husband. Under it all, Fiona can hear Geoff’s quiet reassurances that he’s okay, Matt beginning to bandage him up, and then Jeremy grabs a hold of her arm and she nearly stabs him. 

“We have to get after him!”

“But Micheal-” Fiona starts; no matter what, he’s still her big brother. 

Her big brother, who is bearing down on Lindsay as they’ve fallen, until he swirls to meet Gavin’s blade coming down towards his back. 

“We’ve got this!” Gavin shouts, “Go!”

“Gav!”

“Go! We’ll hold him off!”

At the door, Jeremy stops, “I have to stay with Matt, I-”

“I understand,” Jack speaks before Fiona does, appearing behind Jeremy and putting a hand on his shoulder. There is blood on his hands, soaking into Jeremy’s clothes, “I’m with you, Fiona.”

“Jack,” Fiona starts, and there’s a lot of things she could follow that sentence with, her worries, her fears, how the king could just threaten Jack and then it would all be lost, but even as it bubbles up in her throat she doesn’t say anything. 

“I’m with you,” He repeats, and together, they go through the door, leaving the sound of fighting behind them. 

The tyrant smiles at them from his throne, his fingers dancing playfully on a button that sits beside him. He seems completely unperturbed at their entrance, despite the orders he gave to Michael. As if his plan was always to seperate them; knowing that Lindsay and Gavin would never give up on Michael, that Matt wasn’t a fighter and Jeremy wouldn’t leave his side and none of them would leave Geoff alone. His grin widens, when he spots Jack behind her. 

“I thought you didn’t like wielding the crown,  _ warden _ ,” He says, “How they ever gave it to one so ungrateful, I will never know.”

“It’s because I didn’t want power that they gave it to me, asshole,” Jack snaps back, “You have abused it for far too long. Give it back, and we can still settle this peacefully.”

“Always going for the peaceful option,” The tyrant tuts, crossing his legs as if all they are doing is discussing the weather, “It’s why this kingdom was so weak.”

“Can’t you hear them?” Fiona says, her arm waving at the stained glass windows that hide the chaos outside, “That doesn’t sound like weakness. All of them, against  _ you _ .”

The tyrant doesn’t falter, not in his smile or in his words, “Exactly.”

“What do you mean.” It comes out as a demand from Jack, rather than a question, and Fiona levels her sword at the king, stepping closer. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” The tyrant wags a finger, and Fiona snarls on instinct at the condescending motion, “One step closer to me and the whole city goes up in smoke.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Fiona snaps.

“Oh, did your little leader not tell you about his back-up plan? About how he and that pathetic traitor spent weeks planting TNT underneath the entirety of Achievement City? My sword told me all about it, and it was simple enough to reroute it for my own ends,” His hand rests lightly on the button, the button, and it all clicks in Fiona’s head. 

“You’re a  _ monster _ ,” She says, and she so desperately wants to put a sword between his ribs but she can’t stop staring at how close his hand is to the button. 

“Oh please, can’t you people come up with more creative insults? Besides, I wasn’t the one to put it there in the first place, but I think it’s the first idea from him that I’ve agreed with,” the king looks up from the button, and the expression on his face sends shivers down Fiona’s spine. 

It isn’t madness; it’s malice, hatred and greed, all wrapped up into two violet eyes that drip with venom, and a smile that is sharper than a knife's edge. This is a man who has been lost to his own ambition for years. This is a man who should have never taken the crown. He is right; he isn’t a monster. He was a man, and that is so much worse. His voice rises as he speaks, whipped into a frenzy by his own ambition,

“If I can’t have Achievement City, then no one!” He stands abruptly, and his fist clenches over the detonator, “NO ONE! CAN HAVE ACHIEVEMENT CITY!”

His fist comes down, and several things happen at once. Fiona runs, breaking into a sprint with her sword outstretched, knowing she won’t make it in time before the world erupts in fire and pain. Behind her, Jack shouts; a warning, a cry of despair, she isn’t sure. 

There is a snap, the sound of a crossbow bolt, something flies past Fiona’s hair and the king howls in pain. 

Through his palm, there is an arrow, blood drips down and stains the golden throne, the button he was about to press, and now a manic look passes over his face as he cradles his hand.

Behind her, Jack reloads his crossbow, and the shot is trained on the king. Waiting for Fiona’s command; she’s too close to him now for him to fire and be assured of her safety.

He opens his mouth as if to speak, but Fiona is already there. He only just manages to move out of the way of her strike, twisting so that the flat of her blade smacks into his side and he stumbles with the force of her blow. 

Violet begins to creep over her gaze, and she takes a deep breath as she stalks forward, as he pulls out his own sword. Blood continues to drip, slow and steady, onto the floor, but he grips the sword with his other hand and he grins, feral. 

“You want to go for round two?” He says, “I can’t  _ wait  _ to kill you this time,”

“I’m not the one dying today, bitch,” She says, and her sword turns to a blur in her hands. It’s a lightning strike, thunder in every blow because even injured, this guy is fucking fast, so fast that she doesn’t realise what happens next until Jack shouts a warning. 

There is purple and violet in the air, tell-tale colours and suddenly there is pain blossoming in her back as something dull and heavy strikes true, and she feels a snap-crack of agony in her side. She ignores it, because she has too, and hopes that he only caught her with the flat of his blade.

She swirls in panic, and this time she sees him blink out of existence for a brief moment before he runs at her from the other side of the room, and now the colours in his eyes are unmistakable. 

“Mother _ fucker _ ,” She says as he disappears once again, but this is the third time now, he keeps going to her blind spot, so Fiona turns with a fist raised and gets a solid left hook in when he appears in what would have been behind her. 

She follows it with a sweeping strike that cuts a long line in the king's arm, and blood splatters up and into her. The scent of it almost overwhelms her, and instead of pressing her advantage, she staggers back, breathing heavily to try and centre herself, keeping herself focused. It’s straining at her, desperate, a beast howling to be free and she can’t let it loose. Her back burns, and it isn’t because of where he hit her.

“You’ll never win like that,” and she feels her head snap to the side as he repays her punch, there is a hot streak of pain as a blade catches her cheek, even as she raises her sword to block his killing blow, “Even now, you still haven’t learned. Still too afraid.”

She blinks and she’s back in the arena, a single fight between her and the crown that she’s spent her life earning, and the man who was not yet a king leans in close as their weapons find each other, and whispers all of her fears into her mind. 

“You’re weak, too scared to reach your full potential because they will hate you for it,”

“Shut up!” She had hit him back again and again and again but each time she got close to overpowering him, the weight on her back jerked and strained against her self-control and she faltered. Everytime the strength rises within her she is reminded of the skeletons of houses she once knew, of charred corpses and a possessive rage that clouded her judgement so that she could no longer tell friend from foe. She remembers the quickly hidden expressions on Michael and Gavin’s faces; if she gives in, then they will be mirrored on every single person in the kingdom. So, she falters. She falters one too many times; a fight where she is struggling against her own heritage and an opponent is a fight she cannot win. 

The dust in her memory chokes her in the present, and she staggers as the hilt of his sword collides with her chest. Jack shouts, and another crossbow bolt shoots past them, missing him by millimeters. 

“Fuck off,” She bites, swinging upward with her own sword, catching him on the backfoot but he parries with the same intensity, and unlike her, he has no reservations about using his abilities. His strike has strength behind it that no mortal should have and it knocks her backwards and the blood in her veins  _ roars _ . 

_ Imposter, liar, thief, not his not his he took it he stole it it’s not his it’s yours it’s yours it’s yours _

She thinks of Jack and Gavin and Michael and terrified expressions and she bites down,  _ no. _ His fist slams into her chin and she tastes blood, staggers, falls backward.

“ _ Weak _ ,” the king says, an echo of her memories, “Weak and useless, far too attached. It’ll kill you, you know.”

“FIONA!” Jack shouts, and in the corner of her eye she sees him aim the crossbow again, and the bolt sinks into the king's back, but it only delays his strike, not stops it. 

It gives her enough time, though, to roll out of the way, and his blade skitters off the gold floor. She rolls, sits up and strikes his back, sending him flailing, and she grins, feral, as she watches him stagger. He falls to his knees, coughing, a hand already raised to try and rip the bolt from his back.

Hands on her shoulders, wiping away the blood dripping from her cheek, and Jack’s face comes into view.

“Jack, what are you doing, he’ll be up in a moment, get back,” She says, the king still recovering only feet away. 

“Fiona,” he says, and there is something terrifyingly serious in his gaze, fear and terror and resignation, “Fiona, your side,”

Fiona looks down, and blinks, riding out the sudden wave of dizziness, “Oh.”

Despite the pressure Jack is putting on the injury, blood is slowly oozing from the cracks in his fingers. She has no way of telling how deep it is, but beneath the buzz of adrenaline, it really,  _ really  _ fucking hurts. 

“Fiona,” He says again, soft and he clutches tight to her shoulder. He doesn’t move to get healing potions, and a weight sinks into Fiona’s gut. 

“Oh,” Fiona says again, because what else is there to say? They can’t win. The best they can hope for is that he and Fiona will kill each other, and even then there is no guarantee. He has let go, and she is still holding back. Jack looks like he is about ask a question, or tell her that he is going to be fighting in her place, and no, Jack is a good fighter but he’s not as good as her, and she’ll have to watch as Jack is killed right in front of her, and no, even if she has to die, she refuses to do that. 

Instead, the hand that isn’t pressed to her injury curls around her own free hand, squeezes it tight.

“Fiona, I… I don’t know all of it. But I know enough, alright? I know,”

Fiona exhales a heavy breath, a question on her lips, but he cuts her off. 

“I know that you’re stronger than you pretend to be. That you’re worried about what we’ll think of you if you let it out,”

If anything, he squeezes her hand tighter than before, and she is horrified to see tears slip down his cheeks. 

“Jack, I -”

“Whatever happens, whatever you do, you’re my daughter,” Jack swallows, brushes the hair from Fiona’s face in a gesture that snaps her right back to half forgotten memories and dreams buried deep within, “And I’ll be here. After. Whatever happens, I’ll be here to help you.”

Ahead of them, the king gets to his feet. Crimson stains his robes, and his sword drips with it, and there is a golden sheen to his face as it is reflected off the floor. Whatever brief reprieve they had, it was over. 

He helps her to her feet, and she watches the king grin with a smug viciousness, clearly expecting a quick end to this fight. 

Jack is behind her. He is behind her and he is not afraid, and Michael and Gavin aren’t there to bring her down again, but Jack said he will be. They are with her. 

She fancies strings of flame, holding her tight, fanning her flames; they stretch to Jack, still with his crossbow raised, they stretch out the door where three soulmates fight each other, further, out into the city, connected to every single person out in the streets, fighting for their freedom, for their kingdom. The roar of blood in her ears is no longer a weight, a fear; it is a symphony, a crescendo, a hundred thousand voices that sing to her, with her. She has spent so long blocking out their calls, ignoring their song, and finally, finally she is listening.

In her veins, her blood sings. Deep in her bones, every muscle, every atom, sinew and soul, a melody rises;  _ yes yes yes let go let go yes yes become become become yes _

This castle is hers, and he stains it with his accursed blood. This city is hers, and he endangered it with fire and ash. These people are hers, and he threatened them. 

It is hers, and  _ he stole it. _

She burns with a righteous fury, this inferno flowing through her and chasing the pain away for the time being. She’s not drowning as she feared she would, her blood does not overwhelm her, like a tsunami rushing into shore. She stands on the shore of her mind and opens her arms, her soul. Colour washes over her, deep purple, shadows of indigo and shades of violet, and she does not drown.

Instead, she pulls on her possessiveness, her devotion, her dedication to these people, to  _ her  _ people, and Fiona  _ becomes _ .

Her back flares with pain, the weight forcing her to her knees with a cry, but just as soon as it appears, the weight is lifted. 

No, that’s not right. It doesn’t lift. It  _ unfurls _ . 

Her awareness stretches; suddenly no longer four-limbed, her mind has to adjust to two extra. They are a part of her, they always have been, but they have been hidden, tucked away until she called for them, until she let them free. 

The wings, because that is what they are, stretch across time, across space. They are simultaneously tangible and insubstantial, spanning the width of the throne room, and kicking up dust from the floor as they move through the air. But they also grow beyond that, a wingspan for eons that Fiona cannot even begin to comprehend right now. They curl around her, and she takes a split second to look at the weight that she has carried around for so long. 

A deep dark purple close to her body, almost as black and speckled as the night sky, the void bleeding into gentle hues of blue and indigo and violet, down into something that was almost light pink at the tips, though it was difficult to see with how far away that part of the wing was. 

There were no feathers; instead they were smooth, almost like leather. White strips of bone split each wing into three, bracing each part and holding them up and strong. 

Her wings shift as she stands, and between each is a breath, a word, a whisper from the universe;  _ yes, yes, yes daughter mine, take your gift, use it, it is a blessing born from regret and love and guilt, take it and use it, destroy the thief who took what was given to you willingly, take your birthright and wield your devotion like a sword. _

As her wings settled in behind her, she watched with vicious satisfaction as the smug smile dropped from the tyrant's face, and a flash of utter terror passed over his face. 

“You fucked up,” she says, and is honestly surprised that she is still able to talk, though she only has half an understanding of the words pouring forth from her mouth, “You really,  _ really  _ fucked up. You believed you could challenge me, with your stolen power?”

“You think you’re the only one with a trick up your sleeve?” the tyrant snaps back, anger clouding his eyes and there: she didn’t see them before, but she knows now that they were always there. Only echoes, barely shadows of her own, but wings, broken and beaten and made up solely of the extremities of white bone. Any skin that had once been between the bones had been either torn or burned off, Fiona wasn’t sure which, but the mere thought of it brought on a bout of nausea. 

“I defeated you once before, I can do it again,” He continues, and between one step and the next, he disappears into purple mist, and Fiona feels a shift in her awareness and turns her wings in time to catch his blade with her own. She cannot help but wonder which part of her that he is talking about. Instead, she smiles. 

And then Fiona  _ flies _ . 

Aerial combat, she realises, is vastly different to anything else she has ever tried before. It twists and turns and suddenly she has three dimensions in which to worry about her openings, rather than simply a 360 degree turn. Still, for all of this, it is still very satisfying to tuck her wings back behind her diving to hit the tyrant with the entirety of her terminal velocity, knocking him and his broken wings to the ground. 

When he rises, they rise together. Their swords clash, again and again, each of them diving and rolling out of the way only for the blades to thunder against each other once more. Each movement is little more than a blur, each matching the other movement for movement, but to Fiona’s surprise, she can see her efforts are not going to waste. Each strike from her opponent is weaker, his wings straining to hold him in the sky; meanwhile the blood strengthens each of Fiona’s blows, and her wings are fresh and eager for flight. 

He pulls back from one particularly vicious strike, snarling, vanishing once more to try and get the drop on her from above; Fiona spins on a wingtip and blocks his strike, only to end up on the back foot as his attacks get faster and faster and it’s all she can do to parry them. That is, until a wing swipes in and the weight of it knocks the tyrant straight out of the air and into a wall. 

She hears him snarl, then he vanishes. 

Her awareness expands, trying to feel out where he might pop into existence, trying to find that level of energy that has become all too familiar. 

Her awareness narrows. She feels him before she sees him, and when she does see him, it turns all the fire in her blood to ice. 

The crossbow in Jack’s hand falls to the floor as he raises his hands slowly in surrender. The king has him by the throat, a blade pressed into the skin under his jaw.

“You really thought I was going to play fair?” the tyrant asks, demented and broken all at once, and Jack winces as the blade digs in and a trickle of crimson runs down his neck, “All of you, raised on righteousness and justice, you just don’t get it, do you? The only certainty in this world is cruelty!”

“Let him go.” Fiona says, low and dangerous.

“You’ll have to kill him before I let him go,” the tyrant says, “Look at you; a god amongst mortals, stronger than anyone else in the Overworld! You could have everything you have ever wanted. And yet, this is what has always held you back,” He shakes Jack, and Fiona grits her teeth and more crimson spreads down Jack’s skin, “ _ Attachment _ . All of you, infested with it, sick with it; that’s why I’m stronger than you. That’s why I’m going to  _ win _ .”

He pushes Jack to the floor, and the sword comes down. 

Fiona  _ screams _ , the noise echoing through reality itself, and the sword arcing through the air is enough for everything inside her to twist and shift as the blood finally drags her under. 

Feral and savage, Fiona dives forward, her sword clattering to the floor as her hands, shifting and darkening and growing sharper, reach for the tyrant, and he barely has time to drop the sword before it goes straight through Jack. 

Her claws catch in his robes and he flails like a broken bird, unable to escape as she drags him up, up, up, into the high roof of the throne room, blood raining from his wounds as she shakes him. 

There is a vicious smile on her face, and a hollow, dark bloodlust in her eyes, and the tyrant suddenly feels very very small. 

A clawed hand wraps around his throat and for the split second of life left to him, he can only gasp and struggle in the grip of a girl who is pure devotion, pure loyalty. This is Fiona unleashed, Fiona wild, overtaken by her instincts to protect, to save, and she will fight until she can no longer. He barely gets a second to process this, before there is a hand in his chest and there, dripping red, is his heart in the open air. 

The body falls, the wings dissolving mid air into shards of bone, and finally into ash as it hits the floor with a dull thump. 

On the ground, with his hand up to stem the slow ebb of blood from his neck, Jack gapes. Fiona, clawed and winged and with a spattering of dark scales across her eyes, holds a heart in her hands. Blood stains black, purple, dark blue. Her eyes are dark, shadowed as she examines her prize.

He can only watch as she slowly flies down to the ground, landing in a crouch next to the body of the man who had caused them all so much heartache and pain. Her head tilts to the side, a creature examining her prey. 

“F-Fiona?” Jack says, and her eyes snap to his. They are frighteningly, terrifyingly blank, lost to the grip of bloodlust. She doesn’t move, still as stone as she watches him. 

“Fiona, it’s okay. It’s over,” He takes a careful step towards her, and her wings rise, billowing out behind her on instinct. 

“It’s me,” He says, and what else can he do but step forward once more? He promised her, “It’s me, Fiona. Come back. You did it.”

Her knees bend; she might be about to fly up or pounce forward and neither are options Jack can allow. 

Jack stumbles forward, steps over the body as quickly as he dares, uses an arm against the flat of the blade to push the sword away, even as Fiona’s wings flare in alarm and a snarl grips her features. 

Jack engulfs his daughter in a hug. It’s different, now that he has to account for her wings and her claws that are still dripping blood, but Fiona still fits into his arms like she always has. She struggles for a brief moment, and sharp nails scrape across Jack’s back, though do not pierce through his clothes. Then she stills, her arms falling to her side. It is all too familiar, and Jack can do nothing but continue to whisper gentle reassurances, to be there for her until she no longer needs him. 

Slowly, carefully, hands, not claws, come up to hug him back. 

“Dad?” Fiona asks, in a voice far softer than he has ever heard from her, and when she pulls back so he can see her eyes, he is relieved to see that her heterochromia has returned, and recognition clears her unfocused eyes. The scales across her eyes have faded too.

“I’m here, Fiona,” Jack says, as gentle as he can, “I’m here. You did it. I’m so, so proud of you.”

“Dad, I-” Fiona says, and buries her face in his chest again, “Thank you.”

A warmth settles over his shoulders, and oh, the claws and scales have gone but the wings remain, albeit at a slightly more manageable size. They are closed around him, a hug that envelops them both, and he cannot help the quiet, “They’re beautiful,” that slips out of his mouth. 

Fiona looks up and around at her wings and smiles bashfully, “I - Thanks Jack, I grew them myself.”

Then he is laughing, curled in on himself as he wheezes, and both of them are banged up and bruised but Fiona bursts into giggles as well and so they are painfully laughing and holding on to each other so that they don’t fall over onto the corpse beside them. 

“We did it,” Fiona says, when she finally composes herself, wiping the tears from her eyes, “We  _ did  _ it. We won.”

Jack smiles, relief and weary all over his face but even exhausted, his smile brightens the room, sun breaking over the trees, the dawn of a new world.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this looks like an ending but i still have plenty of ideas.... and I still have to write a lot of michaels POV.... as well as some post-ending fluff.... plus anything else you guys might wanna see.....
> 
> i'm @MJDashwood on twitter and marianne-dash-wood on tumblr, come say hi!


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